


William

by BignRichKris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Soulmate AU, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BignRichKris/pseuds/BignRichKris
Summary: John is content with his life with Sherlock, even though Fate deems "William" to be his soul mate.Fate goes against Sherlock's sense of logic & reason, so he ignores his own mark.





	William

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post in the I Am Johnlocked group on Facebook. I have not sat down to write fanfic in almost 20 years *cringes* so hopefully this isn't too horrible. I have a plot in my head for a continuation to this, but am not confident in my ability to write an engaging story, so I thought I'd post this first to see if anyone likes it *g* 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. I literally just sat down and my fingers puked out this nonsense. Hopefully it's not horrific!

John Watson was alone.

His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, died, six months ago. The void left behind by the loss of the most brilliant, beautiful, amazing person John had ever known was deeper than could be guessed by anyone.

John had moved out of Baker Street; Sherlock’s ghost was impossible to live with. There were no more cases at Scotland Yard, no pub nights with Greg, no nights at the flat filled with Chinese takeaway, smelly experiments in the kitchen, or violin lullabies.

Living with the grief, and the guilt, of Sherlock’s suicide was not really living; John felt hollow and incomplete. If he were honest with himself (and why shouldn’t he be, when it was obvious to those closest to them?), Sherlock Holmes was his other half in every way. Together, they were brains and brawn, sun and moon, yin and yang. If it weren’t for the small script imprinted on his left hip, “William”, John would have even said that Sherlock was his soul mate.

John had been enthralled with Sherlock from their first meeting, but Sherlock’s intertwining into John’s life was seamless and sudden. It was as if John had been on a precipice, about to fall, and Sherlock had unequivocally and irrevocably saved him from the pits of despair. John didn’t require Sherlock’s ‘Science of Deduction’ to figure out that he had fallen in love with the consulting detective; he had spent many nights feeling torn between his emotional attachment to his flatmate, and the fact that his soulmate, as determined by Fate, was out there, somewhere, waiting to be found.

After Sherlock’s death, John spent his nights in the company of a bottle in his tiny flat on the other side of London. Despite his grief, he kept his drinking from consuming him, as he still pulled shifts at the clinic (not the same one as before, nothing in his life could remain the same after losing him), and being a doctor was all that John had left.

But John Watson was alone.

Truth be told, the loneliness was becoming unbearable. John now lived with the regret of not admitting his feelings to Sherlock; would that have been enough to keep the younger Holmes from taking his own life? John never deluded himself into thinking that Sherlock might return his affections; Sherlock never expressed any type of real sentiment for anyone or anything but The Work. Of course, John knew he was valuable to the detective…it was obvious that Sherlock allowed John to be closer than anyone else. But there was still the aversion to any type of intimacy (as made apparent by their interactions with The Woman), and there were still secrets. While John had never volunteered the identity of the mark he was born with, Sherlock was adamant that his own brand was of no importance. “Caring is not an advantage.” While John never forgot the name of Fate’s chosen partner, being in Sherlock’s orbit made John less inclined to search for “William”. Life at 221B was everything John wanted, and needed…at least until the day he watched the most important person in his life fall from the Bart’s roof.

Now, sitting in his dingy flat, a bottle of cheap whiskey at his feet and a half-full tumbler in his hand, John honestly could care less that Fate did not expect him to be alone, that “William” was still out there. If he couldn’t have Sherlock, he didn’t want anyone.

***

Sherlock Holmes was alone.

It had been eighteen months since he had “died” to keep his friends safe. To keep John safe.

John Watson. His conductor of light, his best friend. Sherlock had never been one to consider sentiment; even after he had learned from Mummy that the small, blocky letters on his right hip spelled the name of his soul mate, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to deem the information relevant. He was perfectly content being alone, with his books and his experiments and his mind palace. When he felt the pull of sentiment, he would fill the emptiness with a seven percent solution that erased his cares. After all, as Mycroft had told him after Redbeard’s death, “caring is not an advantage”.

All of that changed the day John Watson entered the lab at Bart’s. As soon as Mike Stamford made the introduction, Sherlock had felt a jolt of electricity course through his body. If he were not a master of his transport, he would have been drawn to place his hand on his hip, as if a phantom flame had licked the skin there.

John.

Of course, ‘John’ is a common name, and Sherlock had quickly reasoned that it meant nothing, it was just a coincidence.

But the Universe is rarely so lazy.

Being adept at emotions, Sherlock maintained his cool aloofness in an effort to remain detached. But he quickly realized, between a pink case, a drugs bust, and a murderous cabbie, that this man, this ‘John’, was far from usual. He was unruffled by Sherlock’s deductions, by his brash nature. He wasn’t scared off by Sherlock’s loud and fast lifestyle.

As Sherlock stood underneath the lukewarm spray of water pouring from the grimy showerhead in his rundown motel room outside of Bangkok, a small smile ghosted over his lips at the memories that lived inside John’s wing of his mind palace. Allowing himself to think of John in these rare quiet moments helped him survive the loneliness of his mission. He no longer felt uneasy about the emotions that swelled within when he thought of John; John’s presence in his life had broken the machine that had lived inside him. He now realized that love was not a chemical defect; it was, in fact, the most natural and absolute best chemical reaction the human body was capable of producing…it was much more stimulating and fulfilling than any drug Sherlock could inject into his veins. Caring was the most amazing advantage a person could possess, as it allowed him to withstand months of pain, torment, and adversaries that would have mentally and physically bested him had he not been able to focus on eliminating all threats to what he held most dear.

Sherlock exited the shower and glanced into the full length mirror hanging precariously on the back of the bathroom door. His eyes rested on the reverse image of the blocky letters etched into his skin, and his hand ghosted over the name of its own accord. The letters were small but sturdy, requiring attention despite their slight stature; so much like the man to whom they represented. A small smile played on Sherlock’s lips as he thought of his blogger, his best friend, his other half.

John, his soul mate.

Sherlock had tried to convince himself that John Watson was of no relation to Fate’s mark. Despite what society (and Mummy) wanted him to think, Sherlock had always felt the idea of soul mates was childish and against all reasonable logic. The mark on his hip was fairly easy to ignore, as he never felt the need for physical or emotional companionship.

However, as time went on and John remained steadfast and loyal, Sherlock began to second guess himself. He could no longer allow himself to deny that, when you remove the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

Sherlock Holmes had found his soul mate, and he had fallen in love with him.

By the time Sherlock resigned himself to his feelings, John had repeatedly, and adamantly, stated that he was not gay. In an effort to protect the friendship that Sherlock held above all else, he held his emotionally detached mask firmly in place, and never allowed John to see the truth. Sherlock had to remind himself that he had disregarded Fate’s mark as unimportant, and as he never wanted to lose his best friend, he was willing to continue to disregard it.

That did not mean he did not lay in bed at night thinking about the warm body with the piercing blue eyes, strong hands, and sandy blonde hair that was asleep in the room just above him at Baker Street. Jim Moriarty had said he would burn the heart out of Sherlock, and by threatening the lives of his friends, of John, and forcing Sherlock’s exile, he had done just that.

And now, Sherlock Holmes was alone.

He took a deep breath and schooled his features. He had a rendezvous scheduled with one of Mycroft’s operatives; he was so close to completing his mission and being allowed to return to his beloved London, and to John. 

***

John rode the tube in contemplative silence. He was returning to Baker Street for the first time since Sherlock’s death. He was finally closing that chapter of his life; Sherlock had been gone for two years, and he was ready to move on.

Mary Morstan had been instrumental in John’s recovery. He had quickly come to look forward to her presence; she made him smile a little easier, she gave him something to look forward to besides a slow draining bottle. He cared deeply for her, but he dared not analyze his feelings too closely, because he was smart enough to know that what he yearned for would never be replaced. After losing Sherlock and then meeting Mary, John was determined to ignore Fate’s design and do everything he could to not lose another person that made him feel like his life may just be worth living.

That was why he had decided to propose to Mary. She knew she wasn’t John’s Fated soul mate, just as he knew he wasn’t hers; but they both had been alone and they were perfectly content with their relationship.

John Watson knew that whomever “William” actually was, he would never hold a candle to Sherlock.

Of course, John’s plans were derailed by a ridiculous-looking waiter with a drawn-on mustache and a fake French accent.

Sherlock’s plans of exposing the mark Fate had born him with were derailed by an angry John in possession of a small jeweler’s box.

***

Sherlock had died on the operating table.

His heart had stopped. He was dead. Again.

This time, it had been John’s pregnant wife that was responsible instead of a consulting criminal.

John had been unable to think about his marriage while trying to help Sherlock recover from the bullet wound to his chest. He had wasted no time in moving back into 221B when Sherlock was released from the hospital, and for a little while, they were both able to pretend that Bart’s had never happened, that there had been no Moriarty, no wedding.

No baby on the way.

Sherlock knew it wouldn’t last; he wouldn’t allow John to stay. John had found his soul mate, his other half, and he was going to be a father. Sherlock would never stand in the way of that, and he would never allow John to walk away from his own happiness.

His resolve was shaken one afternoon shortly before Christmas, when John rushed into his bedroom with nothing but a towel slung low around his waist. Sherlock had been overcome by a painful coughing fit, causing John to worriedly exit his warm shower to ensure he was okay. After a cursory inspection of Sherlock’s vitals and stitches, John turned back towards the bathroom, the movement causing the towel to slip off of his left hip. Sherlock was thankful that John did not observe the color draining from his face or his heart rate increasing. For the first time since “Afghanistan or Iraq”, Sherlock knew who John’s soul mate was…and it wasn’t Mary Morstan.

***

Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath, was once again going to die for John Watson.

Of course, John did not know that. John did not know that he was being driven to a remote airstrip to say goodbye to his best friend for the last time.

John was still trying to come to terms with what had happened at Appledore. He knew that Sherlock wanted to help him and Mary by taking down Magnussen, but the thought of Sherlock committing murder in front of MI6 operatives never crossed his mind. Knowing that he was being exiled for protecting John’s family was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sherlock, however, knew exactly what fate awaited him at the end of his flight, but he could not bring himself to regret his actions. He had known that Charles Augustus Magnussen was a vile excuse for a human being, and his being a threat to John’s wife, and by extension, his child, was not a possibility that Sherlock could live with.

He had been at war with himself since the day he had seen the name scripted onto John’s left hip. Sherlock had been overjoyed to see the true identity of John’s Fated soul mate, but that sense of joy was quickly doused by his unfailing sense of logic and reason.

Sherlock, when honest with himself, knew he was a bit Not Good for John Watson. He had caused the doctor years of grief and pain, and his marriage and child were a direct result of Sherlock’s actions. After days of careful consideration, Sherlock had determined that he had relinquished any rights he may have had to John, and he was determined to encourage his best friend to return to his marriage and save his family. Even if that meant doing something that would remove Sherlock from their lives, forever. Obviously, it wouldn’t be the first time he had done something to save John, something that was of great personal cost to himself.

But Sherlock was used to being alone.

Standing on the tarmac, looking into those piercing blue eyes for the final time, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to confess to John, to show him Fate’s mark, to express his sentiment before he lost any ability to speak. But he wanted his final image of John’s face to be one of humor, so he could dream of his favorite smile as he drifted off into his planned drug-induced coma.

So, instead of words of love and devotion, he gave one final attempt at humor, for John.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

John looked confused. “What?”

“That’s the whole of it – if you’re looking for baby names.”

John felt all of the oxygen flee from his lungs. His hand grasped the sleeve of Sherlock’s Belstaff reflexively as his knees buckled in shock. He could barely inhale enough breath to choke out, “Will-William is your first name?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading! As I said above, I haven't written fan fiction in almost 20 years, so this is really a huge leap for me. I was nervous even thinking about posting here, but I figured, what the heck, right? If you're interested in the rest of the story, please let me know :)


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